The Dead Tree of Life

How can you live a meaningful life when you believe that life is meaningless? How can you make it through the day when you believe that each motion you make, each word you say, each breath you take, is ultimately futile? How can you live your life when you believe that there is no reason to live? I cannot say, but I must wonder, for the Tree of Life is dead.

I have always wondered about the meaning of it all. That is nothing new. I have thought about it for years--since before I was truly conscious of my identity as a human being. But for some reason, the thoughts are different now. I have had them this past week with seemingly feverish intensity. I am no longer sick. I should be feeling better. I do not understand why the sickness of the soul has returned. It seems to come every year around this time, and by God I cannot say why my mind feels the need to torture itself like so. It is the most horrid depression imaginable, where everything seems so futile and meaningless. Everything hurts, and the universe is cold and empty. Everything is dead. I am utterly alone in a burning theater packed with a fat, panicking mob. Everything is disgusting and distasteful. Nothing is as it should be, and this knowledge hurts like hell. I see that I cannot make any of it right--that it will be crooked forever. I lose all hope. My soul shrivels up and loses its leaves.

I cannot write when I am like this. I need to, desperately, but I fundamentally cannot. I sit in front of my computer, highly caffeinated, for hours into the night. I stare at blank word documents, blasting music, trying to blast feeling into my soul. And then the tears come. I well up and fold myself in half, weeping, face contorted in perfect agony. I can never quite say why I am crying, but that there is nothing else I can do. It isn't just a fleeting disappointment; it is deep-seated sadness whose roots I simply cannot determine.

I don't know what to do. I know that being miserable doesn't make me special--it only makes me miserable. I know that this is probably the result of a simple chemical imbalance, and could be treated by drugs if I were not too proud to speak to someone in that damn mob. I don't know anymore. I just... I can't live like this. Something needs to change; I know neither what nor how. But I can't live like this. It's killing me.

The Writer Experiment

A week or so ago, I was sitting on the couch watching Castle. I thought about writing, about the writers' lifestyle, and what I wanted. I thought about my other passions: history, politics, economics. I realized that they often bore me. I don't really read history books all the way through. I can't watch the news daily for more than a week. Economics, while fascinating, is an ultimately hopeless field. As someone who believes in a free market, it's not like I want to control the market. Whereas, I have always been interested in writing.  As I was sitting there, feverish and high on cough medicine, I began to picture how my life could be. I could be a writer--a real writer--and spend the entire day in front of a nice computer, with my wonderful new clicking Das Keyboard, blasting whatever music I wanted, and writing. I could wallow in my thoughts. I could permanently run away from this world I despise and live in the world of which I dream. It would be a wonderful life, that.

I do not know, however, if it would be enough.

But I have time, now. I have spring break this week, meaning that I can finally breathe. I have very little homework. I have time to try on this lifestyle, this career, and see if it makes me happy. See, I base all of my life decisions off of experimentation. I have spent many weekends immersed in politics. They have made me happy enough. This week I will see if writing alone can make me happy. I will settle in coffee shops with a laptop and write, just write for hours on end. I will play the part. I will pretend to be a writer, and see if it makes me one.

Hypothesis: After a week of pretending to be a writer, I will know that I could potentially do it.

Materials: Laptop, Flash drive, Coffee Shop, Coffee, iPod, Crackberry

Procedure: Sit in coffee shop for hours on end, with coffee and laptop. Write.